I've Got Soul But I'm Not a Soldier
by Smokeybubble
Summary: Richie Tozier has one hell of a birthmark. Or, the obedience curse fic that literally no one asked for. Author's Note: This story gets dark folks. Will contain violence, non-graphic sexual assault, a whole heap of cursing, and other mature content. Please read individual chapter tags.
1. Prologue: 1978

**Oh man, it's been awhile since I posted a story on here. I just love the Losers so dang much, I couldn't help myself.**

**Anyway, I've been sitting on this story for a few months, and post-Chapter Two seemed to be as good of a time as any to throw this up here. Story uses elements from both the movie and the book, but I've tried to make it so that if you haven't read the book, you're not missing too much, and if you have read the book, you're not bored by repetition. Updates will be on Sundays!**

**Mind the warnings kids, this story is gonna get rough in spots. I promise the ending is happy though. The first couple chapters are laying the groundwork, and then we'll get into the real storyline starting in Chapter 3.**

**Title comes from The Killers song All These Things That I've Done**

* * *

Richie Tozier has one hell of a birthmark.

It's not a birthmark, exactly, because he didn't have it when he was born. But he's had it for as long as he can remember, which is close enough. And it is easier to think of it as a birthmark. Better a birthmark than a brand.

Richie can't remember getting his birthmark because he was only three at the time. His father, Wentworth, can barely remember it either. Child-rearing, by unspoken agreement, was always Maggie Tozier's responsibility. Wentworth washed his hands of the whole matter before Maggie was even six weeks pregnant. He was not a romantic man, and wanted nothing to do with the business of raising sticky-fingered, unpredictable children. But Maggie knew, deep in her heart, that mothering was in her nature. She would raise the child, with or without her husband.

So it is Maggie Tozier where the whole business of the brand — birthmark — began, with the simple truth that Maggie Tozier thought she wanted a child. Then, too late, she realized that she did not.

It took her three years to admit this. A week following Richie's third birthday, after sending Richie into the backyard, Maggie shut the sliding door and threw herself into a seat at the kitchen table. She put her head in her hands. "I can't do it, Wentworth," she said into her palms.

Wentworth lowered his newspaper. He looked over the figure of his wife, posed in a dramatic expression of defeat, and took a sip of his coffee before raising the newspaper once again.

"I always wanted children," Maggie continued. She put a hand over Wentworth's wrist and forced him to put down the paper. "I could be a truly wonderful mother, I know it Went. But Richie is just so… so…"

"High-maintenance?" Wentworth said, resigning himself to the conversation.

"Annoying!" Maggie said, and burst into tears. "I can't stand it! He's always running off or showing me stupid little drawings or interrupting me or asking me endless, pointless questions."

"That's how all children act, dear."

Maggie sobbed into her hands. "It's awful! I don't have a moment to myself! Why couldn't we have had a nice, quiet girl? It's always 'Mom, look at this!' or 'Mom, watch me!' or 'Mom, I'm going to track dirt all over the fucking house and you're going to have to clean it up!'" Her breath hitched, and when Wentworth patted her hand she cried harder. "I know I could be a good parent! With a normal child. Why is God punishing me?"

Wentworth sighed and folded up his newspaper. "Well, we can't bring him in for a refund," he told Maggie. A tapping at the back door drew their attention. Three-year-old Richie stood outside, dark curls askew, grinning a gap-toothed smile and holding up a large stick, for whatever reason. He babbled something unintelligible through the glass, and his parents smiled weakly at him. Wentworth made a shooing motion and Richie skipped away, waving his stick in the air.

"You see?" Maggie demanded. "I can't even have one conversation without him interrupting."

"Maggie—" Wentworth said. He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away.

"No," she said, once again beginning to cry. "I don't know what to do, Went. I'm going crazy."

"You could give him up for adoption."

Maggie raised her head from her hands just long enough to glare at him. "And have the whole neighborhood know what I did? The looks we would get!"

Wentworth sighed. He took a long drink of coffee, set his mug down, and drummed his fingers on the table.

Maggie watched him, her hands clasped to her chest.

"Alright," Wentworth said at last. "Alright. I may have an idea." His voice was heavy, but Maggie didn't seem to notice. She beamed with delight, grabbing Wentworth's hand and peppering his knuckles with light, smacking kisses.

"What is it?" she asked breathlessly. "Oh thank you, Went, I knew you would think of something."

Wentworth said, "you remember my sister? She lives out in Nebraska."

Maggie nodded.

"Well," Wentworth said, "she has the Gift. Like my mother."

"Oh!" Maggie looked surprised, then concerned. "I forgot about that. It skipped you though, right? I'd hate for people to start thinking that we're mixed up in some sort of freakish cult activity, you know how they are. Remember when everyone found out that Elfrida Marsh—"

"It skipped me," Went interrupted. "Besides, you know I don't hold to any sort of magical nonsense. It's such an unreliable practice. But my sister, she may be able to help us. She could whip something up to make Richie a bit more… manageable."

Maggie squeezed Wentworth's hand. "Let's call her!" she said excitedly. "Let's call her right now!"

"Let me do it," Wentworth said. He allowed Maggie to lace their fingers together, though his mouth was turned down at the corners. "She might need some persuading. Behavioral magic in general is rather frowned-upon, and especially when performed on a child. You go have a lie-down, dear, and I'll take care of it."

And so he did. With a bit of effort. Though Jaqueline Tozier refused to perform such magic herself, she agreed to tell Wentworth the procedure for a home-casting. The ingredient list was extensive — the femur of a cat being the most difficult (and ultimately the most disgusting) to get their hands on — but in five days, the Toziers were ready. Maggie gave Richie an extra large dose of Benadryl that knocked him out cold, and when he woke up several hours later in his bed, he had a shiny new symbol burned into the skin over his heart.

Maggie Tozier was certain that she had made the best choice of her life. There was no more dirt all over her floors. No more rapid fire questions when she was trying to talk on the phone. No more grubby hands reaching for her face or leaving smudges on the hem of her skirt. Overnight, Richie transformed into the picture of a well-behaved child.

There were adjustments to be made, of course. Maggie and Wentworth had to watch what they said much more carefully. There was the memorable incident, a few months after the "procedure," as Maggie liked to call it, when she snapped at Richie for eating too messily at dinner. Richie wandered around the house for the next two days without eating anything, until Maggie realized her mistake and corrected it.

But the occasional mishap aside, things went along smoothly in the Tozier household. The burn healed quickly, scabbing over and then scarring when the scabs fell away. Soon, Richie couldn't remember a time when he had been without the brand. He still tried to throw a tantrum now and then, when Maggie's rules became too much for him, but those were easily quelled. Maggie simply told him to stop, and Richie would stop, whether or not he wanted to. It was, Maggie thought, a true gift that she had bestowed upon her son. A beautiful gift.

And it was a gift to herself, of course. Who wouldn't want a perfectly obedient child?


	2. Chapter 1: 1998

**I'm posting the first and second parts in one day because the first part is too goddamned short to be of any use to anyone. **

**Chapter summary: Stanley Uris is too smart for his own fucking good.**

* * *

It was Stanley fucking Uris — quiet, intelligent, observant Stan — who was the first to figure it out.

Richie was good at keeping secrets. The best, really, if someone ordered him to keep his mouth shut about it, and his mother had certainly ordered him to keep his mouth shut.

"The _things_ people would say about us, Richard," she'd told him, her eyes wide and dark with the imagined horror of gossip. "The neighbors would _never_ look at us the same. You know how most people feel about magic." She said 'magic' as though it was a bad word, rolling her mouth carefully around the sounds in case they broke against her teeth. "Your friends would think you're a freak," she told him. She had taken Richie's hand, looking into his eyes through his new, coke-bottle glasses that he'd gotten only the week before. "Which is why you must never tell anyone about your gift. Ever."

Richie had snapped to attention, feeling the weight of a new command settle onto his chest and shoulders. "Yes, Mom," he'd said, trying not to sound sullen, and she'd smiled brightly at him before kissing his cheek and ordering him to play in his room for the rest of the day.

That had been seven years ago, before Richie had good friends to speak of. But now, with Bill Denbrough's thirteenth birthday in just two days, Richie had not one good friend, but _three_, and he still had no idea why these losers liked hanging around with an even bigger loser like him.

First, there was Bill. Taller than the rest of them (and probably more handsome, though Richie would never tell him that out loud), with neatly combed, blazing red hair and a calm strength about him, despite his stutter. Bill had a little brother, Georgie, who Bill doted on like the kid had hung the moon. Richie thought that maybe that was why he'd taken such an immediate liking to Bill — he'd almost never heard Bill order Georgie around, and even when he did, it was said with such big-brother exasperation that it didn't seem to matter. When Richie looked at Bill, he felt safe in a way that he had never felt around anyone else, not even his parents.

_(especially not his parents)_

Then there was Eddie Kasprak, who, despite his asthma and the fucking pharmacy he carried around in his two — two! — fanny packs, was the best guy Richie knew for getting his chucks with. Eddie was short and skinny, like someone had run out of materials during his construction. Richie loved resting his elbow on the top of Eddie's head like Eddie was his own personal armrest, just to make the kid light off like a firecracker. Eddie had large, dark eyes, and a thin, pixie-like face, and sometimes Richie caught himself staring at Eddie, wondering how any one kid could look so much like a baby faun. He couldn't let Eddie catch him at it, of course, because Eddie had a fuse that was as short as he was. Yet for all of Eddie's exasperation with Richie's endless nicknames and crude jokes, Eddie never told Richie to fuck off. It made Richie want to cross his eyes in confusion.

Finally, there was Stan Uris. Stanley fucking Uris, with his yarmulke perched on top of his tight, blond curls. With his ever-present bird books and his quick, knowing eyes. With his prim, neatly tucked button-up shirts and his pressed pants, as though he was already an old man and simply going through middle school for kicks. Stanley fucking Uris.

It was Stan who Richie went with on Thursday to pick up supplies for Bill's birthday. They rode their bikes over to the Costello Avenue Market after school, their saved change jingling in their pockets.

"Do you think we should try to carry a cake home?" Stan asked, as they leaned their bikes up in the alley beside the store. "Or should we just get ice cream and hope it doesn't melt before we get it back?"

"Cake," Richie said immediately. "Are you kidding me, Stan-my-man? It's not a proper birthday without cake!"

"Which is stupid," Stan complained. They came out of the alley, and the lazy traffic passing by on Costello Avenue sent a warm wind over their faces. "Ice cream is better than cake anyway. Just because tradition says cake is the designated birthday dessert-"

Richie clapped a hand to his forehead in exaggerated shock. "Stanley, surely you — the most _tra_-ditional of Jewish boys — aren't saying this. That's siding with the devil, you know, going against tradition and all."

Stan just rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Richie," he said.

Richie's mouth snapped closed. He swallowed against the familiar, burning twinge that always accompanied a direct command, and followed Stan into Costello's. Luckily, Stan was already heading for the display of cakes at the back of the store, and didn't notice Richie's sudden silence. Richie wound his way through the shelves, trailing behind Stan and stopping every now and then to peer out of the front windows at the bright sunshine outside.

"What about that one?" Stan asked, pointing to a small, chocolate cake with fluted icing. "Bill likes chocolate."

Richie reached the counter and shrugged. He hated it when people ordered him to be quiet. Especially when they did it on accident. His parents told him to shut up all the time, but at least they _knew_ he couldn't talk or answer when they asked him a question. With other people, Richie just felt like an idiot, trying to mime his way through a conversation.

Stan was still peering at the cakes. "Or maybe that one would be better," he said. "The one on the bottom shelf, with the strawberries?"

The cake in question was beautifully frosted and within their limited budget, so Richie nodded.

Stan glanced at him. "Yeah? You like that one best?"

Richie nodded again, hoping Stan would hurry up before the silence grew strange, or else demand Richie tell his opinion so Richie could talk again. It wouldn't take much; the curse was pretty liberal with interpretations, and Richie was an expert at finding loopholes in what people said.

Stan wasn't making it easy though. "I don't know," he said, tapping his chin and staring down at the cakes. "Do you know if Bill likes strawberries? I can't remember if I've seen him eat them before."

Richie wanted to shake him. He knew for a fact that Bill did like strawberries, not that it was doing him any good. The pause was getting awkward. Normally Bill or Eddie was around, talking with Stan and drawing attention away from Richie's silences.

Stan was starting to pick up on Richie's strange mood. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Richie. "What's with you?" he asked. "Are you sulking or something?"

Richie shook his head and shrugged again, but was saved as the counter attendant appeared in that moment and asked the boys what she could help them with.

"We're getting a cake for our friend's birthday," Stan explained, after a last look at Richie.

"How nice!" the attendant said. She was three or four years older, with long brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She smiled at them. Richie grinned back, though Stan's smile was slightly more subdued. "Just tell me which one you want and I'll box it up for you."

The tightness in Richie's throat eased at once. Thank God. "The one with strawberries, please. On the bottom," Richie said. He pointed at it, and the attendant slid the cake out from the display and carried it away to be packaged. "Thank-ee kindly, deah!" Richie called, in his best Southern twang. He chuckled — a brief, cursed silence was not unusual, and so he was not unduly bothered by it — and turned to Stan. "Bill's gonna love it," he said. "He likes strawberries."

Stan was frowning at him.

"What?" Richie asked.

"Nothing," Stan said, after a moment. But his lips were pursed, and Richie didn't like that expression. That was Stan's dissatisfied expression, when he knew something was off but couldn't quite put his finger on it. Frantically, Richie rewound the last few minutes in his head. Had he been too obvious? Not that a silence in itself should be all that strange. Stan told Richie to shut up all the time. Eddie and Bill were usually with them, so the silence wasn't as noticeable. Even so…

But Stan only shook his head and said "you're so weird sometimes, Trashmouth."

Richie was relieved. "But that's why you love me," he said, plastering his shit-eating grin back on his face.

"Yeah, whatever."

The attendant returned with their cake, they paid, then Stan put the cake on the back of his bike and they pedalled slowly and carefully to Stan's house, where they put the cake in the refrigerator so it would be safe until Saturday. Richie thought that was the end of it.

It wasn't. It was barely the beginning.

Afterwards, Richie decided the whole thing could be blamed on Coach Bleider, because it was the next day, on Friday, that Coach Bleider decided they should run laps for P.E. class. More specifically, he decided that _Richie_ should run laps.

It was after the third interruption of Bleider's explanation of Kickball (although Richie felt it was very impressive that he hadn't interrupted more. A name like 'Kickball' was just begging to be exploited for testicle-related jokes) that Coach Bleider finally lost his temper. He jabbed a finger at Richie. "Tozier. Laps. Now. If you have the energy to talk that much, you have the energy to run until I tell you to stop."

The force of his words had Richie jumping to his feet before Bleider had finished talking. Their class was outside, enjoying some of the last warm days of early autumn before the cold set in for the season. Since P.E. classes were held jointly between the 7th and 8th graders, both Stan and Eddie were in the class with Richie. But Eddie had a note from his mother telling the school that he was "not to participate in outdoor activities due to his grass allergies", and so only Stan was there to watch as Richie started across the field with Coach Bleider glaring holes into the back of his T-shirt.

At first, it wasn't so bad. Richie ran at a leisurely pace, more of a slow jog than anything, and watched the other kids forming up kickball teams in the middle of the field. _Kickball_. Richie snickered to himself, even as the persistent itching of compulsion kept his feet pounding on the soft grass. He shook out his arms and slowed to a lazy lope. Coach Bleider hadn't specified how fast Richie had to run.

He started on his second lap. He was running back towards the other kids now, and he could see Stan's tow-headed profile lined up to the side while Coach Bleider assigned their positions.

"Short stop," Coach Bleider said, when he got to Stan.

Richie had never been good at controlling his mouth. He knew it, his friends knew it, hell, pretty much everyone who'd ever met Richie knew it. Sometimes his mouth just acted without his permission. On occasion, Richie wondered if his mouth ran away with him because it was trying to spit out everything it needed to say before the next person told him to shut up. The words were out before he could stop them. "Good choice, Coach!" he said as he jogged past. "I know another thing Stan-the-man's got that's short too."

Coach Bleider whirled on him like a small dog, all pent up rage and yapping aggression. "You call that running, Tozier?" he barked. "Clearly you're not trying hard enough, if you can take breaks to be a smart alec. Step it up! I'll have you sprinting these laps if it teaches you to watch your mouth."

A hook pulled in Richie's gut as the curse took note of the new orders. He flashed a tight smile and snapped a tighter salute to Bleider. His legs pumped, carrying him into the next curve. A burning itch grew under his skin and he ran faster, wondering how fast until the curse was satisfied that he was following Coach Bleider's orders.

It seemed the curse was taking Bleider's orders very literally. Richie was nearly sprinting by the time the burning in his skin began to ease. That was what he hated most about the curse: it didn't help him follow directions, only punished him until he couldn't bear not to.

So Richie ran. The first few innings of kickball were played out in the middle of the field, and Richie couldn't stop. He ran as his lungs began to burn and his heart swelled in his chest. Richie was active — as most 12-year-olds are — but after holding a dead sprint for seven laps of the wide, green field, Richie could feel the strain in his legs and chest. How long would Bleider make him run for? The autumn sun, which had been so pleasantly mild when they first came outside, now seemed oppressively hot. Richie snuck a glance at Bleider as he entered his ninth lap, but Bleider wasn't paying him any attention. He was in the infield, demonstrating the best ways to catch a bunted ball.

Richie was breathing heavy and fast. His lungs screamed. He slowed, gulping air, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his sweaty nose. He took a few jogging steps, and then the curse burst beneath his skin. Richie almost tripped with the strength of it, with the sudden, burning pain. He sped up again, swearing internally at Bleider, at his parents for causing this whole thing in the first place.

(_A prickle started just under his skin at that. "Don't be rude to your parents," Maggie had told him sternly. "You love us and you will respect us."_

_He stopped his silent monologue, focusing instead on the bright blue sky, and the prickle died away._)

Richie lost track of the number of laps he ran. Whenever he slowed to catch his breath, the curse would come alive, nipping at his ankles like a lash until he sped up. Surely, this period was almost over by now? Richie's shirt was plastered to his back with sweat, and he was sucking in air in dizzying, whooping gasps.

Down to the edge of the football field. Skirt the road. Up along the side of the school. Along the fence. Back across the open grass towards his class and the football field. As he ran past, he caught a glimpse of Stan Uris' eyes following him. There was a wrinkle in his brow. But Richie had no time to analyze Stan's brow-wrinkles. He put his head down, forced his mind blank, and ran.

An indeterminable time later, a bell ringing from the distant school signaled the end of the period. Richie felt a rush of relief. He kept running, watching as Coach Bleider gathered the rest of the kids and dismissed them. Bleider waited until Richie had completed the final leg of his lap — along the fence and back down the length of the field — before yelling at him to stop.

"Get over here, Tozier," Bleider said, and Richie stumbled up to him. His legs felt like they were made of unset gelatin. Bleider eyed him with lingering annoyance. "I hope you learned your lesson from this," he said.

Richie nodded, bent over with his hands on his knees. He couldn't speak through his heavy panting.

"Good," Bleider said. "Hit the showers, then. Next time you can play with the others, if you don't speak out again."

Richie nodded, his rubbery legs already trying to head towards the locker rooms as Bleider's words settled over him. He got a few yards before Bleider called grudgingly after him, "good hustle, Tozier! You should think about joining track next year, with that endurance."

For once, Richie held back the retort that sprang to mind and merely flashed Bleider a thumbs-up. He'd as soon dress up in a tutu and dance the can-can as join the track team. After today, he didn't think he'd ever run another step. Red-faced, sweaty, and too tired to be humiliated, Richie staggered back towards the school.

Stan was waiting for him in the boy's locker room.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded.

Richie groaned. All he wanted to do was faceplant on his bed for a solid twelve hours, but he still had two periods to struggle through and Stan's bitchy face to deal with. "What was what, Stan-my-man?" he asked. He tried to sound flippant, but didn't think he quite pulled it off. He turned away from Stan to open his locker and started pulling out clean clothes to change into, trying to hide how his lungs were still labouring under his skinny ribs.

"_That_," Stan insisted. "You know what. I just watched you run forty three laps at practically a sprint."

"Pish-posh, Stanley," Richie said, waving a hand. Forty three laps? He was in better shape than he thought. No wonder his legs were cramping. "Practically a warm up."

"You look like you're about to pass out," Stan said flatly.

"Can I shower yet?" Richie asked. "I'm already going to be late to English." He felt sick. His face was too warm. Stan was bang on the money, Richie _felt_ like he was about to pass out.

"Why are you acting so weird?" Stan said.

"I'm not acting weird!"

"Yes, you are!"

Richie's head was filled with helium. His heartbeat throbbed through his entire body, pulsing in his arms, his throat, his knees, his eyes. He didn't answer, and Stan's expression softened.

"I just want to know if something's wrong, Rich. Just tell me what's going on with you."

The command slammed into Richie's spine like a punch, and his mouth was halfway open before a buzzing under his skin made him freeze.

_(You must never tell anyone about your gift. Ever.)_

He closed his mouth, but the buzz didn't stop.

_(Just tell me what's going on.)_

Unwillingly, Richie began to tremble. The buzz grew to a sting. Then a burn. What was he supposed to do? He opened his mouth again, tried to speak, and the curse _screamed_ at him.

(_Never tell anyone about your gift.)_

"Richie?" Stan was looking at him worriedly. "Are you okay?"

"Fuck," Richie mumbled. His body was being yanked in two different directions. His stomach spasmed, and then — despite his protesting legs — he lunged for the toilets. He made it to the first stall and kicked it open before the retching started.

(_Just tell me.)_

"Shit!" Stan shouted. He hovered by the stall door as Richie threw up the half-digested remains of his lunch.

"Sorry," Richie said. He spat out a string of saliva. The curse hissed and sparked under his skin, bringing tears to his eyes. "I've been feeling sick lately, I guess."

_Please, please, let that be enough._

Stan looked at him helplessly, shaking his head. "Jesus, Richie," he said.

"Aren't you not allowed to talk about Jesus? You won't get any presents at Hanukkah, or something." Richie rushed through the words, shoulders tensing, then leaned forward to vomit again. It turned out ribbing Stan wasn't as funny when his intestines were trying to crawl up through his throat.

Thankfully, Stan's hatred of anything messy extended to watching Richie hurl into a toilet. He pressed his lips together, looking disgusted and frustrated. "Fine. You don't have to tell me."

Richie's shoulders slumped as the curse abated. "Sorry," he repeated, not sure this time what he was apologizing for. For worrying Stan? For vomiting in front of him and grossing him out? For making a joke about his religion? For being so obnoxious that his own parents would rather brand him with magic than put up with him?

He stood up, not meeting Stan's eyes. "I'm gonna clean up," he said. Stan moved to the side, and Richie ignored his dark, thoughtful gaze as he grabbed a towel and headed for the showers.

The next day was Saturday, and Bill's birthday. Richie woke up and immediately regretted it; his entire body felt as though it had been stretched out like freshly-made taffy. He came close to calling Eddie and telling him that he was too sick to come today. If anyone wouldn't question a sudden illness, it was Eddie. He'd get a lecture about not bringing a coat to school in autumn, and whatever weird disease Eds thought he would catch from that, but ultimately Eddie would let him off the hook.

He knew he couldn't though. He couldn't bail on Bill's surprise party, after all the preparations they had done. Besides, Stan would see right through Richie's excuses. He lay in bed for several more minutes, weighing his options, then swore and slowly sat up. He couldn't miss Big Bill's thirteenth — thirteenth! They were real teenagers now! — birthday because he was feeling a little sore.

Or a lot sore. As gingerly as an old man, Richie got out of bed and hobbled for the stairs. He could hear movement in the kitchen, and an ugly swoop of disappointment went through his stomach. He

_(hated)_

preferred it when his parents weren't home at the same time he was.

Wentworth was at the table when Richie made it to the kitchen, which was a little better than Maggie being there too. His mom was, in Richie's opinion, a little too fond of giving out orders. At least Wentworth never seemed to care much what Richie was doing.

"Morning, Dad," Richie said.

Wentworth acknowledged his son with a dip of his head, which was good enough for Richie. He was pulling cereal out of a cabinet when Maggie floated into the room.

"Good morning, Richard," she said. Her voice was always soft, vague and dreamy as though it was coming from someplace far outside herself.

"Morning, Mom." Richie pulled a bowl from another cabinet, and Maggie seated herself at the table beside her husband.

"Richie, be a dear and make me some eggs," she said. She smiled at him, as if that would make her words sting any less.

Dully, Richie set down his bowl. "Yes, your highness," he muttered under his breath. "Wouldn't dream of keeping you waiting. Or, God forbid, have you make your _own_."

"What was that, Richard?" Maggie said, her airy voice gaining just the hint of an edge.

"Yes, Mom," he said louder. He went to the fridge to pull out the egg carton and butter while Maggie turned to her husband and began to chatter about the appointments they had lined up for the day.

Five minutes later, Richie set her breakfast down on the table and was able to pour his own cereal. He was about to tuck in when Maggie raised a thin eyebrow at him. "Richard, you left the stove dirty. Please do the dishes."

Richie bit his tongue — his mother had long since forbidden any sort of protest when he was talking with her — and let his spoon fall back into his untouched cereal. He had to clean the pan, the spatula, and wipe down the counter before Maggie allowed him to sit back at the table. His cereal was halfway soggy. He ate it anyway, eating quickly so he could leave the kitchen. Not messily though. Maggie had also seen to it that he never chew with his mouth open, or too loudly.

"Bye Mom, Dad," he said as soon as he was done, jumping up and putting his dirty bowl in the dishwasher.

"Where are you off to?" Wentworth rumbled. He dropped his paper so he could look at Richie over its top. "You're in an awful rush."

Richie fidgeted uncomfortably. "It's Bill's birthday," he said. "Bill Denbrough. So I've gotta go help my friends set up for when we surprise him."

Wentworth's eyes vanished back behind his paper. "I see. Have fun then."

The curse perked up at that, and Richie clamped down on the noise of frustration he wanted to make. He supposed he was required to have fun now. Not that he wouldn't have anyway, but not for the first time, Richie wished that his parents had been a little more careful about the rules of the curse. It was hard enough to take orders. It was worse to have every thoughtless suggestion take root inside of him.

"Yessir," he said. Maggie smiled at him, and Richie escaped before she could say anything else.

The bike ride over to Stan's house was excruciating, but by the end of it Richie's tired muscles were starting to loosen up, and he climbed off his bike a bit more gracefully than he had climbed onto it. Stan's father let Richie through to the living room, where both Eddie and Stan were already elbow-deep in setting up snacks, cheap streamers, and a hand-painted banner that read "HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILLY" in bright, sloppy letters.

"You're late," Eddie said, scowling at the streamers he was trying to pin over the T.V.

"Sorry, Eds," Richie said breezily. "I had to stop by to see your Mom. She was missing me."

"Ew! Jesus, Richie!"

Richie cackled, already feeling the grayness left behind from yesterday, and the morning with his mother, lifting away. Stan was shaking his head.

"Here," he said. He threw a bag of chips to Richie. "Help me put all the snacks in bowls."

The curse zinged through Richie's chest and shoulders. He saluted. "Right away, Stan-the-man." He headed towards the kitchen, ripping open the bag of chips, and didn't feel Stan's gaze as it followed him across the room.

"Aw, sh-sh-shit!" Bill yelled, startled and then laughing, when Mrs. Uris lead him into the living room and Stan, Eddie, and Richie leaped out to yell "SURPRISE!" "Y-you guys sh-sh-shouldn't h-have."

Richie clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Why, of _cawse_ we uh-had to, Billiam!" he said, in what he probably thought was the voice of a Southern Belle but in reality only sounded like Richie with stuffed sinuses. "Awnly the best for mah favorite boy, c'mawn now, don't Ah get a birthday kiss?"

Bill rolled his eyes and shoved Richie away, laughing despite himself. "Y-y-you're a m-menace, T-t-t-tozier," he said.

Stan wrapped Bill in a hug, and Eddie grabbed Bill's wrist to lead him over to the couch, where all their popcorn, chips, candy, and board game options had been laid out. "We've got Risk and Monopoly," he said, holding them up. "But we figured we'd let you have the final say, since it's your party."

"Monopoly," Bill said.

"That's just cause you've won the past two times," Stan grumbled.

"B-but it's m-m-my b-birthday," Bill said triumphantly, and none of them could argue with that.

"I wanna be the scottie!" Richie said as they began setting up. He lifted the metal token and stroked the dog's tiny head. "He'll be the only friend I can count on by the end of this." He squinted around at all of them. "I don't trust a one of you miserly sons-of-bitches."

Bill snorted. "Everyone knows y-y-you c-can't h-handle your m-money. Your t-token can't s-save y-y-y-you. I'll take th-the boat."

While Richie made indignant noises, Eddie chose the shoe. Stan tapped his fingers on his cheek, deciding. "Are you sure you want the dog, Rich?" he asked. There was something — a strange note in his voice, and Richie couldn't decipher what it might be.

"Of course!" he said, holding the little scottie close to his chest, as though Stan might try to snatch it out of his hands. "You keep your thieving mitts away from Sir Scott!"

"But you _always_ get the dog," Stan argued. He held out a hand. "I want a turn, let me be the dog this time."

It wasn't a request. A buzz woke under Richie's skin, painful and electric. Still, Richie held onto the token. _I don't want to_, he thought to himself. _I don't want to give it up_. "C'mon, Stanley," he whined, sliding into his Toodles-the-Butler voice. "Sir Scott and myself have a bloomin' connection, dontcha know!"

"Oh, just give him the dog, Richie," Eddie said impatiently.

The curse surged, stronger with the double command, and Richie jerked before biting his lip. His fingers trembled, and he willed them to stillness as he passed the token to Stan. He met Stan's eyes, and there it was again — that strange something that Richie couldn't put his finger on. He didn't like it. Stan's mouth was pressed into a thin, flat line. Despite receiving the scottie, he didn't look all that happy.

"Well," Richie said, leaning back and breaking the queer tension that had formed between them. He slapped a fresh smile on his face and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Then I guess I'll be the hat."

Bill won Monopoly because he was a cheating cheater, but also because he somehow bought both the greens _and_ the dark blues, and after he'd installed hotels all along his properties the rest were doomed.

"This is terrible," Eddie said, covering his eyes. "Terrible and embarrassing."

"Yowzah, yowzah, YOWZAH!" Richie said. He handed over the last of his money to Bill and flopped onto his back in utter defeat. "Big Bill gets off a good one! You've cleaned me dry! How'll I feed my children now? Poor Tabitha is only four, Bill, you heartless monster. Her daddy'll have to come home and explain how he didn't bring back dinner, and they'll have to move because their house isn't theirs anymore because mean ol' Banker Bill took it, and she'll look at him with big eyes and-"

"Sh-shut up, R-r-richie," Bill snorted. Eddie snickered and started to gather up the Community Chest cards. Richie obediently closed his mouth.

"Cake?" Stan said. He was watching Richie from the corner of his eye. Richie frowned, and would have called him out on it if he'd been free to talk. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at Stan, who flushed and looked away quickly, standing up to go get a knife from the kitchen.

"G-g-gee, th-thanks g-g-g-guys," Bill said as they clustered around the coffee table. "Wh-hat type i-is it?"

"Chocolate strawberry," Eddie told him. Stan re-entered the room with the cake, a knife, and plates and forks.

"Y-y-you guys a-are th-th-the b-best," Bill said, slinging an arm around Richie's shoulders as Stan set down his armload and lit the thirteen candles stuck in the top of the cake with a match he took from the mantel. Eddie hit the lights, and Stan, quite unexpectedly, said "you sing too, Richie!"

The tightness in Richie's throat and lungs eased. His tongue unstuck itself from the roof of his mouth. "Well, duh!" he said. "I'm the best singer of them all! No need to remind everyone, Stanley. You know how jealous Eds gets."

Eddie shook his head, but the candles were melting fast so they held a quick but rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday" so that Bill could blow them out. They cut themselves thick slabs of cake, and Bill opened the presents they each had gotten him: a new toy gun from Richie, a deluxe carton of colored pencils from Eddie, and a tire patch kit for the wheels on his bike, Silver, from Stan. By that time, it was nearing five o'clock.

"I-I'd better b-b-b-be g-going," Bill said. "Muh-my m-m-m-mom a-and d-d-dad are t-tak-king m-me out t-t-to d-dinner t-t-tonight." He got another round of hugs from each of them. "Th-thanks guys. This w-w-w-was a-awesome."

"I'd better head out too," Eddie said, as they trooped outside into the evening sunlight. "My Mom'll freak out if I'm not home before dark."

"Y-y-y-you w-wanna ride d-double on S-s-silver? W-we can st-stop b-b-before your house s-so your m-m-m-mom d-doesn't see."

Eddie looked uncertain, but the angle of the sunlight was already slanting low between the browning leaves on the trees. "Alright," he said, after a moment.

Richie wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "Oh my baby Eddie-bear," he said, in a voice that sounded not at all like Sonia Kasprak's. "You know I hate it when you take risks like that! There's no pill for a broken hear-"

"Shut up, Richie," Eddie said. "See you around, Stan!"

"B-b-bye, g-guys!"

Silver was far too large of a bike for Bill, but that fact hadn't stopped Bill yet. He got Silver rolling, standing on the pedals with the tendons in his neck bulging out from the effort of moving Silver's massive, oversized frame. The bike wobbled at first, and Eddie, perched on the rear basket, grabbed for the seat with a growing expression of regret. The playing cards clipped to Silver's front wheel _click-clacked_, faster and faster. Bill threw himself onto the pedals. The bike wobbled again, picked up speed, and steadied. Stan and Richie watched as Silver flew down the street and around the corner, the playing cards machine-gunning against the spokes, Eddie clinging precariously to the back. Richie thought he heard a faint yell of "hi-ho Silver, AWAYYY!" from Bill before the bike and the two boys swept out of sight.

Richie blew out a breath. "Need help cleaning up?" he asked, turning to Stan. Or he tried to ask it. Eddie's parting words had, once again, cut off his voice. A searing, fizzy pain dragged through his chest as he formed the words, smothering them before they reached his mouth. He coughed and rubbed his chest, then coughed again to hide the pain that momentarily made its way onto his face.

"You can talk, Richie."

Richie snapped his head up even as his throat unlocked itself. "Of course I can talk," he said. "The trick is getting me to stop, so I'm told. You're a strange kid, Stanley-the-Manly. Do you need any help cleaning up?"

The shadows were gathering under the trees, and their own shadows were stretching long across the grass. Stan looked at him in the deepening dusk, and that same undefinable _something_ was back in his eyes. "You know what I'm talking about," he said quietly.

Richie shook his head. "No, I don't," he said. "Is this a Jewish thing? You know I don't hold with your Christ-killing ways."

For once, Stan didn't rise to the bait. "It took me awhile to figure it out," he continued. "A long time. You're really good at covering for it."

A slow feeling of falling opened up beneath Richie's feet, and he took a step back, still shaking his head. He needed to leave, to get away _right now_, because Stan was smart and Stan saw things and if Stan _knew_— But his feet were frozen to the grass. "Stan-my-man," he started, but Stan interrupted him.

"I noticed at first with the cakes, you know? All of a sudden you wouldn't say a word, until that girl came to help us at the counter."

Richie took another step back, shaking his head so hard now that his whole spine seemed to be twisting out of joint. "Stan—"

"And then yesterday," Stan pressed on, his face set and his lower lip jutted out stubbornly. "During P.E., and after in the locker rooms, you looked like I was ripping you in half when I asked — no, when I _told_ you to tell me what was going on."

"Stop," Richie whispered.

Stan didn't listen. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He was wearing an expression that Richie had never seen before: his lips quivering, his cheeks flushed, with eyes that were bright and glistening in the dying light. This was beyond angry. Stan was furious. "And even then," he said. "Even then, I wasn't sure, because that would be crazy, right? Crazy that you'd been my friend for so long and I never even noticed—"

_(No, no, no, stop, stop, Stan can't know, he __**can't**__, he'll know you're a freak and he'll leave and he'll tell the others and they'll_ _**all **__leave)_

"It's okay if you don't want to say it. Maybe you can't say it. So I'll say it for you. You've been cursed, haven't you? Cursed to be obedient?"

_(Convince him, convince him he's wrong, convince him, __**convince him**__)_

Richie forced out an extremely stiff, unconvincing laugh. "What are you talking about?" he said. "A curse? Stan, that's the most fucking insane thing—"

"Clap your hands five times right now."

Richie clapped his hands five times. The curse took him so off guard that he didn't even hesitate to do it.

"Fuck," Stan breathed. His face had gone white. His eyes were wide.

Richie stumbled backward. His heart was thrumming too fast. Stan's exclamation was a blow to his gut, knocking all the air from his chest. He started to shake. "Don't tell the others," he said in a rush. "Please, please, Stan, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, please don't be mad, don't tell Eddie and Bill _please_. I'll do whatever you want, okay? You know I will, just say the word, just don't tell them." Tears pricked at the backs of his eyes. Stan's horrified face was all he could see. "I'm sorry, it's fucked, I know, I'm fucked up and messed up, but I _swear_-"

"Stop," Stan gasped out. Richie stopped immediately. "Fuck, no," Stan said, his face becoming even paler. "That's not what I — don't stop just because I said so!" He lifted his hands as though to grab Richie's shoulders, but stopped himself and shoved shaking fingers through his curly hair instead.

Richie watched him warily. "That's sort of the point, you know," he said.

Stan was quiet for a long moment. "Right," he said at last. He bit his lip. "I was reading up on curses after, well…" He cut himself off.

_After I slipped up_, Richie filled in, closing his eyes. How could he have been so careless? He'd fucked up over and over, and of everyone, Stanley Uris had to be the one to notice.

Stan moved forward, holding up his hands, and Richie's attention jerked back to him. "Can I… Can I see?" Stan asked softly. Richie stared at him. See what? But Stan seemed to take his silence as consent, because he reached out to tug at the collar of Richie's shirt, and — oh.

Stan pulled Richie's shirt down far enough to uncover the red, scarred lines that traced through the skin over his heart. Stan's breath caught. His fingers hovered over the lines, then withdrew without touching. Richie glanced at his face, bracing himself for disgust, pity, for Stan to push him away and kick him off his lawn.

Stan yanked Richie into a hug.

_(What? What's he doing, why-?)_

"I'm sorry," Stan whispered fiercely. "I'm so sorry. Goddamnit, Richie. Who did this to you?"

Something cracked in Richie's chest. This was… not what he had been expecting. Why wasn't Stan shoving him off? Why wasn't Stan shouting? He'd finally figured out just how fucked up Richie was, and he'd _pulled Richie closer_. That wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

"I can't tell you," Richie whispered back. He felt the line of Stan's spine tense under his hands. This was it then. _Now_ Stan would pull away.

Stan didn't pull away. "Alright," he said. "Alright." His voice hitched, and his arms tightened around Richie's shoulders.

The tears that had been pressing at the corners of Richie's eyes suddenly slipped down his cheeks. His shoulders started to shake. He buried his face in Stan's neck, and Stan didn't move, even when his skin grew wet and the ridge of Richie's glasses dug into his collarbone. They clung to each other as the sun set and the dying leaves rustled in a cold, autumn wind.

On Monday, Richie slid his lunch tray down next to Eddie with a satisfied smack of his lips.

"Wh-what's uh-up with y-y-you?" Bill asked, over the din of three hundred middle schoolers eating lunch.

"Nothing," Richie said. "Just remembering how great Eddie's mom was last night."

"Richie," Eddie began, already bristling. "Just shut-"

"Beep beep, Richie," Stan said, interrupting Eddie.

Everyone stared at Stan. Richie raised his eyebrows. "What the hell does that mean?" he asked.

Bill snorted into his sandwich. "I l-l-l-like it," he said. "L-l-l-like a t-truck that's a-a-ab-about t-to crash. Beep beep, R-richie."

Stan was smiling to himself, hiding it behind his hand. Richie caught Stan's eye, and his own mouth quirked. "Ah, you guys just can't appreciate my wit," he said.

"Uh-huh."

"Not like Eddie's mom, anyway."

"Beep beep, Richie!" Eddie said loudly.

Stan looked at his lunch tray, a smug _something_ in his eyes.

Richie grinned.

* * *

Alright my friends, next chapter will be up on next Sunday! And now all the groundwork has been laid, we can really start getting into it.

If you liked it, if you didn't, if you have comments or questions or just want to chat, hit me up in the reviews! I love hearing feedback, it is my lifeblood 3


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